don't be that way
by iridescenteverdeen
Summary: fall apart twice a day / [one-shots and drabbles, based around the career pack of the 74th games. rated t for violence and language, possible trigger warnings for certain chapters]
1. human

She pretends she doesn't care and then decides that's ultimately rather pointless. Nobody wants to talk to her anyway, who would ask her if she's okay? Who would she lie to if she replied yes? She's malicious and cold, nobody dares look in her direction anymore - let alone ask her about her _feelings_.

 _You're pretending for yourself._

The thought slivers around her mind, crawling over every inch of her brain until it's ringing louder and louder and she can't ignore it anymore. She scoffs at the idea but deep down she knows that it's true, she's pretending not to care, but it's for herself because if she doesn't then she'll be exposed to a situation she doesn't know how to deal with - and that is more terrifying than the Games could ever be because she knows how to deal with everything. _Apart from this._ She hates her mind for being so human and then bitterly decides she hates herself even more for not _wanting_ to be human, but boxes those dark thoughts away to deal with later, or never.

But she cares.

And it takes her longer than she'd like to admit it, but she cares. And it infuriates her that _he_ doesn't. She doesn't want him to leave. She doesn't want him to die. _(you'rebeingridiculousthisiswhatyou'vebothtrainedforforallyourlifeandyouknowhewontdiehesstrongokaysostopityourebeingstupid.)_ She takes a deep breath and ignores him, because that's how she deals with emotions she doesn't know how to handle, apparently. There's a strange twist of emotions inside her ribcage that she doesn't know what to do with, she can't tell if she wants him to notice or not.

He notices.

She wants to say he marches right up to her and demands to know what's going on, why is she ignoring him, isn't she happy for him? And she could scream no, right in his face, no because it means he'll either come back with girls throwing themselves at him or in a coffin, and she doesn't want either of those options. She doesn't want him, she wants them. As a team like they've been for the past four years; and maybe could try to mask it as she just doesn't want to lose her training partner, but that's not it either, and they would both know it.

She gets her wish after a week of icy silence neither of them knows how to approach. She gets her wish but in the worst way possible.

Because her name is read from the slip of cream card and she waits with cold dread in her heart for someone to leap forward, for someone to volunteer, but nobody does. And maybe if it wasn't _him_ who has already volunteered, who stands on stage with horror on his face, she would have been glad. But it is, it is him and her and they will be together as a team again but this is not how she wanted it, this is never how she wanted it.

They share maybe a handful of words in the Capitol and her heart _aches_ and it makes her want to rip her hair out because she didn't know it could do that. She wants to go and talk to him but what use would it be? They'll both be in the arena tomorrow morning and no words will matter. So she takes another deep breath and carries on ignoring him, hoping that somehow he'll be brave enough to break this monstrous silence that's settled upon them.

He isn't.

They work together alongside the two from One and Four and Loverboy, but without the usual rhythm that they had in training, and they still barely speak. The girl from One is throwing herself over him and she wants to scream but instead she kills lizards and hopes someone else kills him first. Then there are the tracker jackers but they both survive that, too, but in her mild hallucinations, she dreams he looks after her with a quiet, pained voice. It was so vivid that when she awakes she has a glimmer of hope that it wasn't a hallucination, but the wall of stony silence is put up between them again, casting a huge shadow that blocks out the weak hope ruthlessly. He doesn't even ask her if she's okay, they just get up and move on and the days drag on.

The announcement of a feast comes. There's a small part in the back of her brain that tells her if she just speaks to him, there's a chance he'll eagerly reply. _Tomorrow,_ she tells herself as she lays down to sleep, _I'll try tomorrow._

Tomorrow comes and she makes empty threats to Katniss, too busy pouring out her anger on some girl from Twelve that she doesn't hear Thresh until it's too late.

The screams for Cato rip out of her throat desperately, she's never screamed or begged before but she does so at the top of her lungs now, pleading for her life and her rescue and help in one name. She lies on the grass with her hair matted with blood and a dent in her skull the distance she can hear someone yelling her name, the voice raw with panic.

Clove dies not knowing that Cato - who has never begged before, either - cradles her body and begs for her to stay with him, come on Clove, just stay, please - even though the cannon went off minutes ago and he's just clutching at a corpse.

Clove dies unknowing of how Cato felt. Later, Cato dies unknowing of how Clove felt, of how she didn't know how to deal with the unfamiliar emotions he made her feel, of how she never really felt human until he unknowingly made her.

* * *

 **authors note**

hm that^^ was supposed to be like, 300 words and ended up as 1000 oops. anyway welcome to my little collection of drabbles and one-shots based around the career pack of the 74th games, because i luv them. hope u enjoy!


	2. triumph

Eventually, the compliments she had once strived for makes her feel sick to the stomach.

She lies in bed and tries not to weep, because maybe if she keeps ignoring it - ignoring _them -_ it won't be real. There's a part of her that knows that's childish and just wishful thinking, but right now she wants to be a child. She still is a child - her fourteenth birthday has only just passed, but she has grown up too fast. It's worse that she's aware of it, she decides in the dark, because if she didn't know, if she wasn't aware that this wasn't normal, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.

She's not too sure when it crossed the line from cute to creepy. She's not too sure when, exactly, but she knows how.

Because "princess" is now accompanied by a twisted smile, and "baby" with lust-filled eyes, "honey" earns her a squeeze on her waist and "sugar" gives her a hand running up her arm. Once upon a time her beauty was her most prized possession, but now it is her biggest enemy. Growing up she didn't need a personality because she had pink lips and long lashes, growing up she didn't need a name because she could just be called "gorgeous", growing up nobody paid her much attention past her looks, because once she won her Games nobody else was going to, were they? When she was selling her body to the richest Capitol citizens, they weren't going to care about her thoughts or feelings, were they?

She sobs into her pillow and wishes she was brave enough to say something.

 _(she never does)_

The next day her godfather comments on how much she's grown.

 _(he's not talking about her height)_

Her trainer picks her to volunteer three years later.

 _(but only because she's pretty, she has no actual skills)_

In her interview she laughs and twists her hair around her finger, she giggles her way through her the whole three minutes.

 _(and she hates herself)_

In her last minutes she lies on the forest floor with lumps the size of plums sprouting all over her body. Hallucinations seemingly come and go every few seconds, and her mind is a hazy mess but one thought fights it's way through the clouds to the front of her consciousness, and if she had enough energy she would smile. She is going to die ugly and horrendous and nobody will want to watch her on the screen; none of her father's friends will want to rake their eyes up and down her pale skin, no teenage boy will be picturing the _beautifulstunningohwowyouresogorgeous_ girl she once was. And she is triumphant, so triumphant, because they all thought her gorgeous throughout her life, but they can't in death.

Glimmer dies ugly.

And she is glad.


	3. lay with me

_just lay with me_  
 _waste this night away with me_  
 _you're mine_  
 _x_

" **We're** going to be so great out there tomorrow." she whispers into the silence, and he tries to repress a shudder. He pictures them stood back-to-back, breathless and bloody but _glowing_ ; bodies littered around them and the ground stained red. They'll be more than a team, they'll be two people merged as one with years of training together backing them up - they know each other's every move, every tactic, every technique.

 **Cato** wants to voice this, wants her to understand that he knows, god he _knows_ , they're going to more than great - they're going to be fucking amazing. Instead he reaches out and traces his finger up the side of her arm, feather-light touch mapping her muscles and skin, rough from training mishaps and childhood adventures. She breathes life into the quiet bedroom, a stuttering sound that speaks a thousand words.

 **Clove's** room has the bed facing where the wall should be, but instead there's a huge window. City lights and city sounds stream in through where it's open just a crack, and Cato swears he could stay here forever - bed soft underneath their bodies and the promise of tomorrow enveloping them, excitement and anticipation covering the two like a blanket.

 **His** finger reaches her neck and continues it's journey up, carving her jaw and chin and cheekbones, before swooping back down along her nose and halting just over her lips. He doesn't miss the way her breath hitches, or the way her mouth stretches into a smile. He drops his hand back down and turns to look at her, to find her with her eyes alight and looking at him with something wicked - not lust and not laughter but something more, somehow - and he can only imagine his own mirror the same.

 **Her** gaze drops down to where their hands somehow entangled themselves, and absently runs her thumb over his. She runs it over the scar she gave him on the first day they met, when she sliced open his thumb in a whirlwind of hatred and anger. They've come a long way, but the fire that is them has never been quenched.

" **We've** always been great." he murmurs, voice hoarse and barely audible, and in the quiet room she agrees with a kiss.


	4. without you

_come back into the good life_

 _lose these hazy love lines_

 _i've been chasing my mind_

 _lonely in the cold nights_

 _'cos i'm kicking up stones without you_

 _can't pick up the phone without you_

 _i'm a little bit lost without you_

 _without you_

she doesn't realise her hands are shaking until she drops the soap.

it lands on the tiled shower floor with a loud thud that jerks her out of the thoughts she didn't realise she'd slipped into. she's slammed back down to reality without mercy and it _hurts,_ but outwardly all she does is blink a few times - a ghost of a girl with hair drenched into rat-tails, staring into nothing but space. she looks around her, rolling the stiffness from her neck from where she had been gazing down at the floor, and peers out of the window. she's startled to find the sky an inky black, because when she first stepped into the shower candy pinks were just beginning to taint the light blue canvas.

the next thing she notices is how icy cold the water is; it numbs the skin that it trails down, droplets tracing over goose bumps and scars and freckles. she takes a deep, stuttering, breath and shuts the shower off. the sudden silence that envelopes her house is startling and foreign but she chastises herself for being weak and cowardly and marches out into the hallway, towel draped loosely around her torso.

her bedroom feels too large, too empty, but she forces herself to step into it and climb into her too-large and too-empty bed. she misses him, misses his warmth and his concerned eyes and his soft hair; she misses his smirk and lazy insults and strength. she misses him next to her in her old bed, her old house, arm slung over her stomach and chin hooked over her shoulder.

she misses him so much she feels like she's missing a part of herself.

she can't do menial tasks - cooking feels too tiring without him swaying around the kitchen, critiquing her skills with a shine in his eye. training brings her no joy anymore, because he's not around to challenge her, to compete against her with a determined smile. cleaning is now a chore, without him using a broom as a microphone or with a lacy white apron around his waist, bringing tears of laughter to her eyes. she feels like she can't do anything because they did everything together, and it just doesn't feel the same.

she killed the everdeen girl in a fit of rage and revenge, piercing her olive skin with her silver knife over, and over, and over again. looking back now, as she lies in a king-sized bed and stares up at the ceiling, she doesn't think it was worth it. killing her did nothing to bring back the boy everdeen had killed, her cursed arrow finding home in his tanned neck. she thinks maybe, she should have let the other girl win. that way it would be _her_ crying into her breakfast and it would be _her_ who walks around like she has chains on her feet and weights in her mind.

the grey days drag on, eventually blurring into each other. and nothing changes.


End file.
